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Erotic asphyxiation, or breath control play, is the intentional restriction of oxygen to the brain for sexual arousal. The sexual practice is variously called asphyxiophilia, autoerotic asphyxia, hypoxyphilia. Colloquially, a person engaging in the activity is sometimes called a gasper. Historically, the practice of autoerotic asphyxiation was first used as a treatment for erectile dysfunction. The idea for this most likely came from subjects who were executed by hanging. Observers at public hangings noted that male victims usually developed an erection, sometimes remaining long after death (death erection). The practice is still widely used today.

In all honesty, on a personal level, I know exactly fuck all about choking myself out during sex—or, for that matter, choking anyone else out. I’ve heard of people putting plastic bags over their heads, intentionally burying their face in a pillow (perhaps that’s where the term “pillow biter” comes from?), or even putting a belt around their neck (killed actor David Carradine and a whole lot more), but all of that always seemed way too involved and way too fucking dangerous to get a bit of extra zing out of a nut. Plus, why go to all that trouble when you have a Twin Otter and a flight over the Rockies!

The plan was to depart San Francisco early in the morning and see just how quickly we could make it over the big hills and back to Chicago. Z, my good friend and victim of the fecal fiasco over Los Angeles in the same Otter, was looking forward to the trip for a few reasons. First, it was a bit of a vacation for him, and he’d be able to get a bit of jumping in once we arrived at the DZ, and second, his girl was coming with him, and he was excited at the opportunity to show her a touch of his world.

As was the norm for all my cross-country flights in the Otter, I was up at over 17,000’ happily catching one hell of a tail wind and we managed to make Las Vegas for a quick fuel stop in no time at all. With our approach to Vegas came a few Vegas stories from each of us, although conversation with Z’s girl was difficult because she had an oxygen face mask on instead of the nasal cannulas that he and I were using. Conversations about Sin City always have a certain flavor about them, and it must have been that which made me ask if either of the two were members of the Mile High Club. That’s pretty much all it took.

Z, being way too smart for his own good (or perhaps mine), instantly went off on how amazing the idea was because of the plane we were flying and the altitudes we were cruising at. He quickly went about telling us about the physiological effects involved in sex at such a high altitude without supplemental oxygen, saying that, “When the brain is deprived of oxygen, it induces a lucid, semi-hallucinogenic state called hypoxia. Combined with an orgasm, the rush is said to be no less powerful than cocaine! We have to try it!” My response was, “Whatever, dude, you guys are welcome to bang in the back of the plane on the next leg if you want.”

Cut to about an hour and a half later somewhere over the Rockies at 17,500’. Z and his girl had made their way to the back of the aircraft by the jump door behind the cargo that would obscure most, if any, view I might have of their antics. I’d had them take their oxygen tubes to plug in to the jacks in the back of the plane and told them that if they “chose” to remove their masks or their seat belts for any reason, it was “against” my wishes as captain. They of course both assured me that they would never think of such a thing …

I guess it had been about 20 minutes. The fact that I had previous experience with high-altitude hypoxia made me start to wonder if the extended silence from the back might not just be because they’d both passed out cold. Having myself almost dropped out cold while going number two at that altitude, I had a difficult time imagining they were up to anything energetic with so much time having gone by. But how to check that they were good?

I tried using the PA system to get their attention, but it was difficult to hear near the door even if you weren’t all fucked up on a lack of gas, so when I didn’t get a reaction from my yelling I wasn’t terribly surprised. I thought about descending to a much lower altitude to see if that might get a response, but as with my trip over L.A., I couldn’t justify burning all the extra gas getting back up, nor did I want to give up the monster tail wind I had going in my favor (245 knots groundspeed in an Otter!) So, with no other ideas, I went with the only good plan I had.

After getting clearance for a short, quick descent from ATC, I trimmed the Otter to about a 10-degree pitch up as slowly as I could without a noticeable change. As soon as I had a nice little climb going I started adding a fair amount of forward pressure to the controls and …

As I began my “rapid descent” down to 15,500’, the only things that weren’t strapped down to the floor (i.e., Z and his girl), began to rise gently toward the ceiling of the main cabin, confirming two things for me. One: they were both clearly conscious; and two: they were now absolutely card-carrying members of the Mile-High Club. The brief but very entertaining view I got staring into the mirror on the instrument panel also confirmed that sex in a weightless environment looks pretty fucking uncoordinated, but must be a hell of a lot of fun, because other than looking really surprised to find themselves floating midair, they looked positively giddy!

After they were both safely strapped in back at the front of the aircraft and sucking down the O2, they lasted all of about five minutes before they were both sound asleep. Sound asleep with huge grins on their faces! To this day if you ask Z about his Otter flight over the Rockies you’re likely to get nothing but a big fucking smile.

So … If you happen to find yourself with an unpressurized aircraft, a pilot who doesn’t mind, and a willing partner, it’s the safest fucking way I can think of to give the whole erotic asphyxiation thing a go!

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